When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  —You’re living out of a suitcase, aren’t you? Selma shoots, her eyes suddenly wide open, roving over my face.

  —No more than the rest of us, I falter, sitting up, uncomfortable with her prying.

  —Except for Baba! He’s in no hurry to emigrate. He says we’ll never be able to live like this again: the spacious house, the garden, the two cars, the maid, and so much leisure. I bet he’ll be the last Jew in Baghdad. I wonder what he’ll do with all his leisure then. Chat with the pressure cooker? Play hide-and-seek with the cars?

  —Your father’s one of the very few Jews whose life has remained unchanged since the war. He was neither sacked from work, nor thrown into prison, nor roughed up, nor put under surveillance …

  Selma is not listening. She has shifted her focus to two men, dressed in modern suits, sauntering towards us, ogling us without inhibition. Security men? The older one grins, tilts his head, then turns up his palm, posing the tedious question. No, just men. I sigh in relief. Selma sighs in exasperation. We turn to each other once more, demonstrating our lack of interest in them. They stop several steps from us. I spot them motioning to us to join them out in the sun.

  —Let’s lock the doors, Selma suggests.

  I roll up my window too. She puts her seat upright, then picks up her thread,

  —It’s unsafe to flee nowadays, people say. They say the border is heavily guarded.

  —So what? Equally people say it’s no problem to grease the palms of the guards. What wouldn’t people say just to have something to say? The trouble is that nobody knows what the government is up to. One day they seem on the watch, the next day they pretend not to see. The only fact we have is that Haqqi has just made it.

  —A fact? How interesting! An hour ago you were arguing it was just a rumour.

  It is useless to discuss the subject with her. Selma is resolved to flick off every grain of hope I keep groping for, the way she used to knock out my marbles in the kindergarten.

  —Will you confide in me before you run off? she ventures, emptying the paper horn into her mouth.

  —Out of the question! The issue’s too delicate.

  —You love making it sound dangerous, far more dangerous than it really is.

  —That’s not fair! Eighty Jews were picked up in October on their way to the frontier, have you forgotten? They’re still detained. Nobody knows what lies in store for them.

  Selma puts her finger on her lips, signalling me to drop my voice.

  —Are you insinuating that you’ll just disappear one day, like Haqqi, Sami, Laila, David, and the rest?

  —Inshallah! If we’re lucky enough, yes! That’s exactly how it will look, I snap, eager to end our exchange.

  —This winter? Selma persists.

  —No idea. My parents don’t discuss these matters openly with us. Yet even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. You’re satisfied now?

  —Not before you answer this one, please! Have you actually set your mind on this winter?

  —For God’s sake, stop this interrogation. I’m not even supposed to go into this with you. Father said nobody’s to know of …

  —But I’m not just anybody, and you’re appallingly straight and square! You’re all set to go. You gave yourself away, just an hour ago. Yes, back in the classroom, don’t feign innocence. You told me not to take you for granted, right? What did you …

  Selma starts up, looks into the rear-view mirror.

  —Dogs, go fuck your sisters instead …

  —What!

  —The two men, they’re still here, she whispers.

  I spin round, spot them through the oval rear window, standing on either side of our vehicle, slightly leaning on it. Devouring me with their eyes, their hands keep shaking inside their trouser pockets, the way one grates nutmeg. Our Volkswagen is slightly rocking, or so I imagine. Drops of sweat have gathered over Selma’s top lip. She grabs the keys, tries to insert her door-key into the ignition.

  —Selma, that’s obnoxious! What’s the matter with them?

  She finally turns the ignition key. The Volkswagen jolts into reverse. It fails to startle them, or even spoil their pleasure. Quite the opposite, without moving place, they guffaw, make wild weird gesticulations. Selma gets into gear, speeding off. I watch them dwindle in my rear-view mirror, two neat young men rearranging their trousers, readjusting their neckties, merrily waving us farewell.

  —What were they doing, Selma?

  —Masturbating, baby. Rubbing their balls against our car. Green must have turned them on. The bastards! You noticed how amused they were at our panic? I swear it aroused them all the more.

  —Perverts!

  She raises her eyebrows,

  —Since when does a good girl like you use such language? Don’t tell me you’ve been looking through Playboy!

  I do not reply, used to her jibes. The incident, too everyday to waste words on, yet too upsetting to forget, hangs over us. Selma is enf nar, enf duchan, one nostril smoky, one on fire. She hoots, swears, makes rude gestures, overtakes every vehicle in front of her. My heart is fluttering. I would give the world to reach home safely. Having failed to overtake us from the left, two young motorcyclists try now to sneak past on the right. The speedometer moves up. If only Selma would keep her eyes on the road instead of picking on the taxi next to her. Yet I dare not speak up, for the last thing she is willing to hear right now is my opinion of her driving. The trees on the pavement fly past. We pass one square, two, three. Drawing near Hindiyah, our neighbourhood, Selma relaxes, reduces speed.

  —I’m sorry it turned out this way. Next time we won’t stop. But then we’ll go really far, as far as the Luna Park.

  —The Luna Park? You know your way that far? Selma you’re unique, the finest driver in town!

  —I’d love to drive across the border! With such heavy snowfall, they must be using chains nowadays. That would be quite a ride. Can’t you recommend me to your father?

  —Selma, your father will never let you go on your own.

  —Who’d ask him!

  —You’re underage, my father won’t …

  —I know, I know, I was just kidding. Taxi’s at your door, young lady. Yallah, don’t dream of perverts tonight, and remember, your Mama needn’t hear of our afternoon adventure. See you tomorrow, provided you haven’t fled by then.

  —Tomorrow’s Saturday.

  —Till Sunday then, so long.

  Selma drives off. I ring the doorbell. Mother’s head peeps through the window. She opens the door, lets me in. The smell of roast meat is wafting from the kitchen. Quite unusual for this hour of the day, for mother normally prepares our food in the morning. I drop my satchel, remove my overcoat. Mother has not greeted me yet. She is looking into my face, reading the full report of our last two hours. Hoping to take her mind off me, I quickly spill out the latest news,

  —Mama, the Shamashes made it this week! Sami Nathan too. You know who that is, our new physics teacher.

  —Good for them! she replies, sincere yet unconcerned, lacking the inquisitiveness such news usually elicits.

  Her look still fixed on me, she goes on,

  —I’ve got news myself: Curry is due for his chicken!

  Mother is referring to the tiger-striped red tomcat who frequents our garden. I once vowed that, prior to our departure, we would recompense our pet with some sumptuous farewell dinner.

  —What! Heavens, when? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?

  —Tonight! We were notified this very morning, shortly after you’d left for school!

  First Words

  Bellou and I are riding an arabana, a carriage pulled by two black horses. She is seated beside the driver. I jump from her lap, push the two of them apart, and sit between them. The driver has a thick moustache and hairy arms. He clicks his tongue and whips the horses to a gallop. For my sake, he says. We race with the cars along Sa’adoun Street and proceed as far as Bab-el-Sherji. Then we sprint around Tahrir Square and generate wind in the windless su
mmer afternoon. The speed and the sound of the galloping hooves dazzle me. I stand up, clap my hands, and cry with joy. Bellou snatches me back to her lap. She says something to the driver, and we slow down.

  Bellou speaks Syriac with the driver. They are both Assyrians, descendants of the great ancient people, he says.

  —And you? What are you?

  Iraqi, I tell him.

  —What else?

  Iraqi, I repeat.

  The two glance at each other. He winks at her.

  —So am I, he says. But I’m also an Assyrian, and also a Christian. Now, what else are you beside being an Iraqi?

  I could tear him to pieces. I can tell exactly what he is after, what he already knows, and what, for some reason, I am resolved not to reveal.

  —I’m an Iraqi, and nothing else, I insist.

  Bellou pats him on the arm.

  —Leave the girl in peace, she says in Arabic.

  The carriage driver obeys. I stay in Bellou’s lap till the end of the ride.

  The horses halt before our gate. Bellou carries me down with one arm. I kiss her and call her my little mother. She guffaws. She is taller and stouter than mother. Her squinting eyes roll in all directions.

  Bellou is our live-in maid and my nanny. She washes me daily, cleans the house, and helps mother in the kitchen. She makes delicious salt cucumber and the largest Mossul kubbas in the neighbourhood. As round and large as the plates themselves, yet they never break while cooking. Bellou’s daisy-patterned dress smells invariably of sweat and flour. Around her neck is a multi-coloured thread, darkened by wearing, from which hangs a wolf fang between her breasts. It is to ward off the evil eye, she says.

  I am walking barefoot in the courtyard in mid-summer. Soon the ground scorches my soles. I yell, run back to the shade. Bellou pours a bucket of water on my feet. Steam rises from the concrete ground.

  —We are living one floor above hell, she says.

  She is the strongest person in the house. When father does not manage it, he passes her the cleaver, and Bellou effortlessly chops the rock-hard hunk of Kurdish cheese. She alone can haul the Persian carpets to the courtyard in the spring, where they are to be beaten and rolled and dragged into the storeroom until next winter. Our carpets not only have beautiful designs but also exquisite names: Kashan, Kerman, Isfahan, Shiraz, Tabriz, Bidjar, Hamadan. Although she has never been to any of these towns, Bellou can give a vivid description of each one of them.

  —Hamadan is the abode of mighty Hercules, a town of harsh winters, haunted by hurricanes and hawks and houris who play the harp day and night. In Bidjar, waterfalls pour endlessly into bottomless jars. The sky of Tabriz, as of all Azerbaijan, the Land of Fire, is red, while the eyes and hair of its people are in permanent flames. In Shiraz reside Shirin and Scheherazade and other beautiful princesses. Isfahan is a city of saffron domes and sapphire minarets, where the sun bathes its rays in golden dust before it rises, and preserves them in silver powder after it sets.

  —And Kashan? And Kerman? I demand, tagging along after her.

  Bellou is squatting in the kitchen, sewing okra into a chain. I sit cross-legged beside her, scribbling in my drawing pad. She is telling mother about the Assyrian massacre in the north, one summer, a long time ago. Mother is rinsing rice. Bellou relates that Arab, Kurdish, and Yesidi tribes looted their village. Then the soldiers turned up and machine-gunned everyone. Even the women and the children. Even the dogs. Mother shuts her eyes while she is frying the rice. I sketch a woman with two black plaits. Bellou was a child then. She and her sister did not budge from their hideout for two days. Until no footfalls were heard. Until the last moans ceased. Until the village was finally silenced, except for their breathing under six mattresses and for the rustling of fig trees blown by the breeze. Mother pours boiling water into the rice pot. Bellou and her sister set off on foot. My Bellou is running, holding a small girl by the hand. Her two plaits are flying with the wind. The rice is cooking on a low fire. The okra chain is sewn. Bellou rises to her feet and hangs the chain in the courtyard.

  In winter the dried okra will be cooked with lamb and fresh tomato.

  Father is carrying me in his arms, showing me a nest where a brick is missing in the wall. A pair of swallows. Sind-ou-hind, we call them in Arabic, which means, those from the lands of Sind and India. They will spend the winter in our garden, and then fly away in the spring. Sind-ou-hind keep coming and going, like guests in this world.

  When I am a good girl, the swallows leave me a small present, in summer or in winter. Father and I are scouring the room for it. We look above the cupboard, under the bed, on top of the lamp-shade. It is father who finally finds a Kit Kat on the window sill.

  —It’s not the bird, it’s Baba who’s putting on a show for you, brother reveals.

  Similarly he claims that it is only a fabrication of father’s, that apples and bananas get offended when I refuse to eat them, that Wonderland is a fairy tale, just like Sindbad, Aladdin and Ali Baba.

  One afternoon, father returns home driving a car. Dusk falls and he is still parking it, in spite of Zeki’s directives and hand signals. Zeki is father’s colleague and friend. He speaks the Moslem dialect.

  The first car father ever saw was in 1914. He was a boy of six then. The Ottoman commander-in-chief sat in the back and let himself be driven through Urfa. The townspeople crowded to watch. Some trailed behind the mysterious vehicle which was propelled without an animal.

  One of father’s first memories is the Armenian holocaust. He witnessed Ottoman soldiers forcing families out of the Armenian Quarter in Urfa, and marching them out of town. Bath tubs stood before some houses, filled with water to quench the thirst of the condemned, on their way to be shot.

  Everyone seems to drag one massacre or another along in their memory.

  By the time the Allies occupied the whole of the Ottoman Empire in the First World War, father’s family had moved to Mossul. The British barracks stood next to their house. Father could not take his eyes off the soldiers, playing football at their leisure. He had never seen a ball before.

  Four years later, he received a scholarship and set off for Oxford. He travelled by train from Mossul to Basra, and from Basra sailed on a cargo ship to Portsmouth. They docked for ten days in India. In Karachi, he tasted bananas for the first time.

  Every year, father’s old friends send him English stamps and a Christmas cake from Oxford. Recently, I received a present myself, a record, Alice in Wonderland. Father and I listened to it together while he told me everything about Alice falling into a hole and growing very tall and very short and talking with white rabbits and quarrelling with flowers. But father does not have the patience to listen to the record as many times as I do, and he is astonished, weeks later, to find out that I have learned the songs by heart. I want us to go to Wonderland. Not before you have learned English properly, he says, because in Wonderland, everybody speaks English, even mice and oysters.

  —Let her learn Arabic first, mother says.

  I have no idea why she is saying this, because I have been speaking Arabic ever since I can remember. In fact, I understand most of what is being said, except, of course, for the stuff that does not make sense. Like shutting one’s face or losing it. When I ask where can a face be lost, and if somebody else can find it and keep it, brother says my stupidity knows no limits. Mother has already explained that these expressions are metaphors and, therefore, are not to be taken literally. But I do not know what metaphors are. So I still do not understand what it means when mother asks Bellou not to pull a long face, while Bellou’s face is as round as ever. Blood too has other qualities apart from being red. People can be hot or cold blooded, while Baghdadi blood can boil any moment. A tongue can be as long as a slipper, a mouth as foul as the sewers, and not because it has not been properly rinsed. Milk teeth do not smell like ice cream, and wisdom teeth do not speak. Bellou keeps telling me that my eyes are hungry, bigger than my stomach, which is rubbish, only go and explai
n such things to Bellou who cannot read or write anyway. The evil eye is, thank God, real, not a metaphor, that is why it is easier for me to envisage it.

  May your hands live, father wishes mother, when he likes her cooking.

  I refuse to eat until Bellou has fetched me a fork instead of the spoon they keep laying beside my plate, as if I were still a baby.

  We are boating down the Tigris. Zeki is pulling a good oar. Father and brother dive into the water. Zeki’s daughters jump after them. Only I, the youngest of all, must wait for the shore. I fidget inside my red and yellow life-belt and urge Zeki to speed up. The boat bounces up and down and tosses me from side to side.

  We’ve reached the shore, I tell mother. She is absorbed in Dunia’s account of somebody’s breast being devoured by small cancers. I tap her shoulder. Not yet, she says, not bothering to check up on my words. Brother is floating on his back. The two girls are splashing and playing in the water. Move your legs, Zeki cries after them. I wish he would concentrate on rowing.

  We’re at the shore, I repeat. The cancers are cut out of the breast on the operating table. I pull the tail of mother’s shirt. Stop nagging, she grumbles. I slip out of my life-belt and fling it into the water. Nobody takes notice. I climb up the gunwale. My legs are shivering.

  —The girl! Watch the girl behind you! Zeki cries out.

  Mother gives a start, turns around.